


À Terre

by sparrowinsky



Category: Den lille Havfrue | The Little Mermaid - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/sparrowinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is not a prince's favor, nor his kiss; love is you and I, against the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ονόματα

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pukjie_Ainsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pukjie_Ainsel/gifts).



> THANK YOU I loved this prompt so much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are not made of the things people call us.

They call her a great many things.

Wild. Foundling. Lost girl. These are the kind names. The prince calls her _his_ , his lovely, his sprite, his nymph, his pet. He watches her dance with a smile and a glint.

There are other, crueler words. Creature. Witch. Temptress, siren, whore. The cooks run her out of the kitchen with _thief, thief_. The courtiers whisper things like _feral_ and _mad_ and _idiot_. They say she must be like the French wolf-boy, cast into the wild. Unwanted, unneeded.

She accepts all the titles they give her: none of them belong to her, and they are only fear.

No one thinks to ask her name. No one wonders if she might be able to write _(yes, in no dialect these children of the land might have seen)_. No one wonders if her gestures carry meaning _(only agony in every step, only love in every smile, only despair with every breath)_.

No one ask if she might rather be a wife. She would. And yet she would rather be the maids, too; or the pretty scullery-girl; or the cheesemaker’s daughter, or even yet the ladies of the court, maidens and wives and widows. Are any so beautiful as she? No, a glance in the mirror can tell her as much, though she isn’t vain, or tries not to be.

And yet. And yet, yet, yet: she hears them slip from the prince’s rooms, hears what happens before; sees their smiles, sly and knowing; their eyes, knowledge-bright.

She would take that, and that alone. It is a kind of love, and true in its way.

And yet, yet, yet.

The prince won’t have her. She is too akin, he says, to the sweet face of his savior; he longs, he pines, he dreams of her, the girl in the temple.

Their eyes are the same, he says, but she wonders if he has ever truly looked at hers. Never. Impossible. How could he have done, and not seen her heart break?

And that is a thing—

—no matter her longing, desperation, the forlorn tendril of hope wound like seaweed about her heart—

—that is a thing he has never seen.

She knows it, certain in her doom, the day he brings home a bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ridiculously in love with this prompt I'm not kidding, I LOVE THE LITTLE MERMAID SO MUCH.


	2. une histoire faite de vérités

Clothilde sweeps through the palace like a playful breeze, shaking the court to its very roots. A princess, says his highness; a _dancer_ , whispers rumor.

Clothilde has, she knows, lovely curls, very fine eyes, very white teeth which she displays in a smile rather frequently. In more vulgar areas, she is buxom and her waist quite small, even before the application of a corset. Her ankles are finely turned, and strong enough to carry her far and wide. Though she could sooner carry a horse than a tune, her voice is not unpleasant and her laugh, she has been told, quite charming.

She knows these things, in the way any young woman is aware of her own attributes, that they may best be used. They are all, save for the singing, good things.

And still it sets her teeth on edge, the sharp smiles and stilted pleasantries she receives from Frederick’s courtiers. The compliments slyly turned, as if she were too much a fool to see their cutting edges.

It is that, and only that, which brings her bad manners out. Only that, leading her to shock them. Clothilde was raised with more kindness in a single hair than the entirety of Denmark’s nobles, she thinks, and even if grand-mère would be shocked at her behavior, there are times when she simply can’t help herself.

She notes as much in her little book, hand careful and steady, letters small and well-formed. Let history make of it what it may (and it _will_ , for all else aside, Frederick _loves_ her).

It is then, seated at a low desk in her well-furnished room, that she meets the wild girl.

At first the girl’s presence goes unnoticed. Clothilde has long perfected the art of concentration in crowded rooms, and a single figure hovering in the doorway— young, slight, silent- sets no alarms to tolling.

It’s only when she finishes her last thought (and in English! Those fine courtiers may send as many unstealthy servants as they like, Clothilde doubts a one of them can read a word of that language), and turns. The girl steps back, wide-eyed. The moment her foot touches lands she gasps, flinches, and makes the smallest wounded sound, no more than air catching in her throat.

Clothilde is at her side in an instant.

“Come now, come now, let me see. Poor thing, what have you done?” She takes the girl by the arm and leads her to the chaise beneath the window. She’s seen troubled feet before, has herself danced on bloodied toes, and feels instant and aching sympathy.

The girl fights, but she is barely more than a child, despite her valiant efforts (which end when her flailing arm meets solidly with Clothilde’s nose, and the girl lets out a startled little grunt before submitting entirely to the operation).

Once the girl is seated, Clothilde reaches for one of her bare feet ( _tsk_ , she thinks, _what kind of people are these, to leave the poor thing unshod?_ ). To her confusion, it is whole, soft and pink and small and astonishingly well-formed. Brow wrinkled in confusion, Clothilde reaches for the other, keeping her hands gentle on the young woman’s flesh. It is the same.

“What have you done to youself,” she murmurs thoughtfully, “that you flinch so? What troubles you?”

The girl stares back, silent, with damp wide eyes. Ah! Of course. How could Clothilde expect the poor thing to speak French? She tries again, though her Danish is still imperfect.

“ _Jeg er ked af_. What troubles you?”

The girl glances away, biting her lip, and yet does not respond. Clothilde tries another approach.

“I have heard of you, you know. Frederick’s foundling. A wild creature, I’m told.” She smiles, to show she does not believe it, or at least means no harm by it. “A dancer. We have that in common, _ma bichette_. I have not heard your name. Will you tell it to me?”

She only meant to chatter on, to distract from the girl’s obvious continuing pain, but at her question the girl snaps her head back around. She opens her mouth as if to answer, then hesitates.

Clothilde sees, then, the ragged stump in her mouth where a tongue ought to be.

She will be ashamed of it, when she thinks back, but in the moment all she can do is scream.

(The girl flees, and servants come running, and if the whispers will call Clothilde _foolish_ , now, and _childish,_  at least it is no worse than _that grasping_ _French whore_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma bichette: my doe 
> 
> Jeg er ked af: I'm sorry (I hope, I'm trusting Google Translate because I do not speak a single word of Danish).
> 
> I made a half-hearted attempt to be slightly historically accurate, by which I mean I absconded with some names and traits and not much else from Danish history circa 1800s. So... please enjoy this very a-historical attempt at historicity.


	3. αεράκι κατά τη διάρκεια της νύχτας ακόμα θάλασσα

The second time they meet, it is the princess who finds her. Who approaches, cautiously, like an eel, her eyes darting away to scan the distant horizon, as if she only came to take in the sun on this lonely terrace instead of seeking out company.

“Send her away,” hisses Kýma, lingering in the shallow water when all their other sisters have fled at the sound of footsteps. Her dark curls float in the water as she sinks low, a gentle wrinkle forming between her dark eyes.

There is no chance. Clothilde’s progress is quick, and Kýma slides into the darker depths without a sound, even in her frustration.

“Hello,  _ma chatte_ . Are you sunning yourself?” The princess’s grin is quick and fearless, crinkling the sides of her eyes. “I have come to get my answer.” Her too-blue eyes slide away and the smile falls. “I was rude, before. I must apologize. It was startlement, only, but that is no excuse at all. And I will go, if you want it. Only… I would have your name, if you can tell it to me.”

_Wild, thief, animal, beggar, slut, creature, child, idiot_ … There are too many possibilities. The truth is nothing that can be said by the tongueless, full of clicks and whispers, and meaning _the night wind across a calm sea_ .

So she does the best she can, and leans over the edge of the small stone jetty, blowing her breath across the surface of the water.

“Ah!” The princess laughs, warm as the sun on the stone and twice as bright. “I will guess from that, yes? Wind. Gust. Air. Breeze! But those are not names.” She laughs again. “I cannot think of any such names. I will call you Breeze. _La brise_. You are just such a freshness, like the sweet spring wind.”

 _Brise_. She tastes it on the memory of her tongue, enjoying the puff of air and slippery sibilant. _Brise_. Not her prince’s language, but the one Clothilde brought with her.

She’s been afraid of her own name, since she broached the surface of the water and split her tail in two. It became something that no longer belonged to her, something she had no right to, when she tasted air instead of water.

But this, yes. This can be hers.

For the first time in weeks, she, Brise, _Brise_ , feels like more than a doll made of lead. Perhaps the princess is a land-witch, she thinks, for the sudden energy in her limbs couldn’t possibly be natural.

Brise is so delighted, she scrambles up from her sprawl across the stone. Heedless of the stabbing in her feet, she throws herself against Clothilde with a wordless shout of joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma chatte: my cat/kitten. The internet tells me this is very informal, so I think Clothilde is being intentionally forward here.
> 
> La brise: the breeze
> 
> The mermaid and her sisters all have terribly long names meaning very specific ocean-related things in what I hope is passable Greek (Google Translate, don't fail me now.)
> 
> Why? Because I could, and procrastination is my life's work.


	4. nous protéger de l'ombre nous craignons

A soft thud startles Clothilde awake. She stretches out on the bed with a whine, until she can reach nearly the length of it, back arching off the soft sheets. Without opening her eyes, she knows it’s Brise, as much by the way she wakes slowly and comfortably as the fact that anyone else would have let the door close loudly.

Her belief is confirmed at the steps that skip softly across the room, Brise’s strange, light step that she’s grown accustomed to these past weeks, and a small warmth curling next to her.

Clothilde smiles and deigns to let her eyes flutter open. Brise’s face stares back at her, mere inches away, eyes wide and a small furrow nestled between her brows.

“Is it night, still? Or morning?” The shutters are closed, or Clothilde might be able to tell for herself. Not that it matters. She hasn’t turned Brise away yet, and she won’t now.

Brise shrugs, pressing her head into a pillow and giving an exaggerated snore.

“Night, then? Hmm.” Clothilde pulls her knees close and pushes herself upright, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her maid will be angry with her for the dark circles beneath her eyes, but Clothilde can’t bring herself to care. “What’s wrong, my dove?”

Brise rises to her knees, opening her mouth before letting out a heavy breath and turning her face away, bright curls falling into her face. Clothilde sighs in exasperation and reaches to brush the hair away. She’s grown accustomed to translating the girl’s gestures, but this sudden shyness tells her nothing.

As she pushes Brise’s hair back over her shoulder, her finger catches against the cloth of her nightgown.

“What’s this?” Tugging the fabric forward, she can see it’s ripped. Worn to begin with, the soft chemise is parted in a ragged gash from shoulder to rib. Clothilde hisses between her teeth and reaches for Brise’s chin, forcing her to turn her face back. The girl’s face is pale, but for her lips, which are bruised a deep red and marred by a small split near the corner.

“What- Who-” Clothilde chokes down the words, forcing her face to a smooth calmness that shares nothing with the burn winding its slow way around her soul. “You tell me now, _ma cher_ , in any way that you must, and whoever has hurt you, we will see him beaten like a _dog_.”

Brise only shakes her head and pushes herself off the bed. Before Clothilde can chase after, her friend has darted to the little powder desk across the room, and pulled a small wooden box from its drawer. And Clothilde’s breath catches in her throat without Brise even needing to open it.

“Ah, no…”

What follows, she can barely see through the tears that she refuses to let spill no matter how they fill her eyes. Brise pantomimes, half-dancing: she went to bed; Frederick woke her, exhausted or drunk; liberties were taken, chemise ripped, a harsh kiss. Clothilde is relieved when what follows is what must have been a ringing slap, and Brise runs to the door before darting into the bed, as had in truth.

The larger part of her still rages. She has half a mind to pin up her hair in the morning, with her sharp pearl-tipped pins, so that she might run those pins into her betrothed when she sees him next. Or to gather all her things, and all the things he has given her, and take Brise, and run far away.

Brave plans, but they cool within minutes. Clothilde prides herself on pragmatism, and this time is no different. There is no recourse for either of them, but there is some little protection she can offer.

“Stay with me, _bichette_. I grow lonely at night, and fearful of shadows. As do you, I think?”

Her friend’s eyes, so like her own it sometimes feels like looking into a mirror, widen. A moment later her smile follows, brighter than the coming sunrise.

And in truth, the bed is far less cold with Brise by her side.


	5. agápi̱ kai i̱ thysía to̱n adelfó̱n

Beneath the water, Brise’s understanding of the seasons was dim. The water became cool, yes, and they traveled on, but it had always seemed such a languid change. The fish moved, mermaids followed. 

On land, the endless summer weeks had ended abruptly and without fanfare, leaving her surprised when the wedding loomed close. And then it was a blur, fittings and tastings and quiet negotiations that left her head aching when she bothered to listen to them.

And now it was done. Brise had been part of the wedding, technically; as the bride’s favorite, she was dressed in new clothes and let to scamper around the wedding ship with impunity. Even the cooks looked on her more as a favored pet, now, than anything else.

So she had watched, and eaten, and laughed and smiled when anyone looked. She had stared unblinking at the strange ritual binding together princess and prince, a great deal of words without a hint of passion.

If she looked more closely at Clothilde, wrapped in pale silk over which floated diaphanous layers of silver, like foam on a wave… well. So had everyone else.

And now it was all done. Frederick and Clothilde had retired to their rooms, the guests had done the same, and Brise drifted along the deck like a ghost, heedless of the ache in her legs and feet. It was nothing to the silent wailing of her heart.

On her fifth slow circuit of the ship, with the sun long set, she notices a familiar pattern of glints darting across the dark water.

Muted as it is by the day’s events, joy still leaps in her breast. She leans as far over the side as she dares, waiting for her sisters to arrive.

When they do, the joy transmutes to shock. They are shaven, every one. They are beautiful still, and her heart aches with love for them. Still, she cannot hide her shock, and even if she could speak she would not know what to say.

“Did he kiss you?” Kýma asks, a breathy whisper in the cool night air. Brise glances away before she nods, once, slowly.

Her sisters speak amongst themselves, too low for her to hear.

“And yet you sorrow, Erakemi̱?” This from Tyfia, who is brave enough to pull herself slightly from the water on the rope ladder that hangs against the side of the ship. “Not love, then?”

Brise shakes her head again, slowly, sadly. The murmur amongst her sisters is barely louder, this time, but the tone of distress is obvious.

“Enough,” Kýma says, finally. “Come down here. We have a gift for you.” Brise has only once disobeyed Kýma, and as of this night she has come to regret it. She climbs quickly over the side and makes her way down, legs dangling free, giving all her weight to her arms. The rope pulls against her palms.

She shivers the moment her body breaches the water, but her sisters surround her, warmth and love like a shield against the world for a few brief moments.

“We went to the witch,” Sýne whispers, nudging Kély forward. 

Kély looks aside, an angry slant to her mouth. “We went to the witch, yes. We bargained. Our hair, for you. Restored.”

“Not,” interjects Kýma, “that we expected you to fail. But when you told us of the princess…” 

There is a general murmur of agreement amongst them.

Prásia brings forth a bundle wrapped in seaweed. “Take it,” she urges.

Brise does, and the seaweed falls away from the knife it covered, a small, sharp stone blade, translucent and glowing in the moonlight.

“You must kill the prince,” Palírra says from behind her. “With the knife, specifically. And then jump to the water and come home to us.”

A cough echoes from the deck, and they all still, wide-eyed in fear.

One by one Brise’s sisters push forward, wrap themselves around her, and slip away into the depths. At the end only Kýma is left, as always, cupping Brise’s cheek with her warm hand.

“I would rather you have the gift you desired,” she breathes, hardly above a whisper. “I would rather have you happy in your life, my littlest, my pearl; but I would rather have you alive at all.”

Pressed, close, Brise can see the lines of concern carved deep in Kýma's skin, in a way they had never been before. The guilt cuts deep. Kýma is more mother to her than the northern siren that gave birth to her, and she understands in an instant how deeply her choice had cut.

She grips the hand of the knife tightly, giving Kýma the fiercest look she can manage before breaking into a grin. 

Kýma doesn’t turn away until Brise has climbed back to the surface of the deck, and taken her first determined stride towards the royal quarters.


	6. épistolaire

_I am dying, my love._

_Strange to think of. I’m still very young, you know. I can’t be much older than my sister when I was born. I feel such a child, despite these old and aching bones._

_You won’t accept it. I can hear you. The window must be open in the east parlor, as mine is; and your voice, in anger, has always carried. I will tell you to let the poor physician alone, when you return. It’s not his fault. I am very young, but I am old, too. Very old._

_Everything I own you gave me, and everything I own returns to you. I have no will. I brought nothing to this life but myself, and I leave with nothing more. Let this be my last act: I will tell you something of the truth._

_I was not a foundling child, nor a wild girl, nor a girl at all, when we met so long ago. I was a princess. My father was a king. You will have never heard of him. I gave up more than you can know to come here, and you swept in before I had a chance. The temple-girl that his Majesty loved, when I longed for what that love would grant me. I wanted so badly to despise you, but you never allowed it. Instead, I loved you._

_You saved my life again, and again. What else could I do but love you?_

_I am grateful to my muteness, my agony, that they brought me to you. You gave me the gift of my soul._

_When you are finished with your work here, I await you at the gate to Heaven._

_Yours eternal,_

_Brise_

 

* * *

 

 

Clothilde pressed her trembling fist to her lips. The letter had been tucked carelessly amongst some shawls, hidden for half a year past. Half a year, and in a handful of words she felt her heart rip open anew.

A smaller letter had rested below it, and after some time Clothilde brought herself to look at it. It was tightly bound, with a narrow bulge at the center the length of a hand. Brise’s elegant script warned Clothilde not to open it, but to place it on the stones in the little garden they so loved.

It was a very long way, through a palace that had seemed to grow in size as she aged. It was not, however, a task that could be entrusted to her maid or a grandchild.

On aching, aged legs, Clothilde wound her way to the small seaside garden. There, she lowered herself slowly to the stone that Brise had so loved to sun herself on, like a little wild heathen. The memory brought a smile to her face, as so few things had these past years.

Clothilde would sun herself, too, and damn what anyone said. Gently, she laid the bound letter down. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would see her love tonight.


	7. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a chapter, just some headcanon and references used. I thought they might be of interest.

References used:

[Wikipedia: The Little Mermaid](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Mermaid)

[Wikipedia: Mermaids ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mermaid)

[Wikipedia: Frederick_VII_of_Denmark](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_VII_of_Denmark)

[Wikipedia: Louise_Rasmussen](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louise_Rasmussen)

[The Little Mermaid vs. Den Lille Havfrue](https://dettoldisney.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/the-little-mermaid-vs-den-lille-havfrue/)

[French Terms of Endearment](http://french.about.com/od/vocabulary/a/love_2.htm)

 

**Some headcanon:**

The setting is a vaguely AU Denmark. The prince is named Frederick, like in our history, and he takes up with a dancer, but that's about it. Clothilde is invented from whole cloth. I also shifted the time-period, so that I could reference [Victor of Aveyron](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_of_Aveyron) and also give the girls a _touch_ more freedom (albeit not significantly more). 

My concept for the mermaids is that their father is Greek, either Poseidon or Triton. Brise's chapter titles are in Google-Translated Greek, and her birth name + her sister's names are taken from Greek words and shifted slightly (I don't pretend to understand anything about linguistic drift so I basically just changed some letters). I think their full names are quite long, but only really used on formal occasions. It seems like it would get exhausting to be constantly using the full names. "Night-Breeze-Across-Becalmed-Seas! Come over here and look what Light-Through-A-Forest-Of-Kelp has done!" 

As far as I know, most if not all aquatic mammals migrate, and so do these mermaids. That's why Brise rarely sees them (they only come north in the summer), and lets me have a lot of variation among the sisters. They're all basically half-Greek/half-whoever-the-Mermaid-King-could-seduce-because-let's-face-it-mythological-dudes-tended-to-be-horndogs.

Since they're aquatic, they're also chubby, because a) water is cold, insulation is necessary, and b) CHUBBY MERMAIDS C'MON IT'S ADORABLE.

 

**My mental casting because I put way too much effort into characters, even ones that never see the light of day:**

[The Prince/Frederick](https://yourcinematicsurvivalkit.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/chris-pine_agony_into-the-woods.jpg), there could be no other choice.

[The Princess/Clothilde](http://snaglur.com/s/bib/xw3ym52.jpg), ditto.

[The Little Mermaid/Brise/Erakemi̱ (birth-name) ](http://www.girlsgonehair.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Oscar-de-la-Renta-Bridal-2013-bridal-curly-red-hair.jpg), redhead as a nod to the Disney movie.

[Kýma (Eldest sister)](http://blackgirllonghair.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/natural-hair-450a110209.jpg). Totally the mom of the group, probably eternally exasperated by her sisters. 

[Prásia (Second-oldest sister)](http://www.black-hairstylescuts.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/long-curly-hairstyles-for-black-women.jpg), but not by much, born only a few weeks before . Both half-Egyptian. Vacillitates between a mischevious nature and trying to be stern and play lieutenant to .

[Palírra ](http://data.whicdn.com/images/49944423/169659110932812294_CtE2dre2_c_large.jpg)(Third-oldest sister), has no such compunctions and is basically Fred+George Weasley in one package instead of two.

[Tyfia](http://i511.photobucket.com/albums/s355/ashlita_bby/b_X10.png) (Middle sister), laughs a lot, very protective of the three youngest sisters, excellent negotiator between mermaids and other species.

[Sýne ](http://i.imgur.com/3LZ5w.jpg?1)(Third-youngest sister), very quiet, reserved, observant, much drier sense of humor than her sisters.

[Kély ](http://heroicuniverse.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/aubrey-plaza-wallpaper.jpg)(Second-youngest sister), very close to Brise as the two youngest, but not as adventurous, resents her for going to land and "abandoning" them for humans. Despite which, she's the one to come up with the idea of going back to the sea-witch for a rescue.

[Sea-Witch](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Unh0_lJnEWc/UNiRcPpdTHI/AAAAAAAACsw/yh_fiRldBsQ/s1600/Marquesas-Woman-portrait1-copy.jpg). Like in the original story, not evil, just providing a service.


End file.
